


Sharing

by shibarifan01



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 01:39:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/960075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shibarifan01/pseuds/shibarifan01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Our boys finally get together, open their heart to each other and start repairing their wounds and let their love finally blossom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharing

**Author's Note:**

> This is the tail end of the series which started with Yearning, and continued on with Pining - I suggest you read those two before reading this one. Marked for mature content as our boys consummate their love.

 

John makes his way out of the library and walks like a zombie in the darkening evening. He does not see the people, doesn’t hear the traffic. He is singlemindedly going to find the friend that will burn away the pain in his heart. He drops in the first liquor store he sees along the way and comes out with a bottle whiskey. None of the fancy single malts or dedicated casket bourbons – just something dark and sweet and strong that will do the job and help him forget.

He gets home, doesn’t even bother turning on the lights, sheds his overcoat and lets it fall on the floor along with his jacket. He undresses quickly and dons a pair of black sweatpants, opens the bottle and takes a long swig. The alcohol burns a swatch down his throat and into his stomach. He hasn’t used alcohol that way since the days when he was living on the street… that deep, dark hunger that will help him forget everything at least while there is still some liquid in the bottle. He knows he’ll have a killer of a hangover tomorrow but he doesn’t care.

Before giving in completely, he still has the presence of mind to have a shower. The stink of his sweat, his blood, the disinfectant and everything else almost turn his stomach so he walks to the bathroom, wraps parts of his stomach in plastic wrap so as not to undo his bandage and steps under the almost scalding water. He lets it flow over him, not having the strength to do anything else. He’s not sure if he’s crying or if it’s the water burning his eyes… he doesn’t really care. When the water starts turning cold, he hobbles out of the shower enclosure, dries himself, shrugs into his sweats again and goes to sit on the leather couch with his bottle.

He’s about a third of the way through the bottle when, through the alcohol-colored fog, he hears a faint knock at the door. Who on earth… The last thing he wants to do is talk to anyone… “Whoever you are, go the fuck away!” he bellows. But the knocking does not stop, becoming even louder. He has put his arm over his eyes and tries to will away whoever is at the door. And still the knocking can be heard… “If I have to get up to make you stop, you’ll be sorry!” he yells… and still whoever is at the door keeps knocking. Sighing loudly, he gets up, almost trips over his shoes and the rest of his clothes strewn on the floor. His hand wraps around the door handle with enough force to tear apart and he opens the door…

“Good evening Mr. Reese,” says a bleary-eyed Finch. It’s two o’clock in the morning after all. He quickly takes in John’s appearance and is almost knocked over by the sour alcohol smell.

“Wipe that disapproving smirk off your face Finch! I’m in my own home and can do as I fucking well please!” says John, being very careful to speak slowly and articulate clearly since his mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton batting.

“Be that as it may, Mr. Reese, but you’re still my employee and you’ll forgive me if I feel I must come have a look to see how you are treating my investment,” says Finch frostily, making his way uninvited into the loft.

Unsteady on his feet, John follows him. “Your ‘investment’? Your fucking investment?  I should throw you out Finch! I should simply resign, give you back your key and disappear!”

“And what, Mr. Reese? Go back to sleeping in a cardboard box? Back to drinking yourself half to death? Not that you don’t appear to be doing just that right now?”

Finch moves to flick on the light but John’s hand shoots out and grabs it, fast as a snake despite his addled mind. They both stay there, looking at each other, breathing hard and not moving, Finch’s hand captured in John’s. And seeming to gather his wits, Finch says “Are you going to drink the whole thing by yourself John, or are you planning to share?”

Which brings his employee short. John blinks, almost stupidly, unable to come up with a repartee. He tries to turn on his heels as Finch grabs for the bottle. “Give me that Mr. Reese. Do you really think I’ve never had a drink from the bottle? You seem to forget that I come from a dirt poor farming community in the mid-west where it was a common occurrence,” says Finch, bringing the bottle to his lips and taking a long swig. John is dumbfounded and Finch hands him back the bottle. “Next time you plan to drown your sorrows in drink, Mr. Reese, do try to buy something else than this rotgut,” adds Finch grimacing and shivering theatrically. John cannot help but snort through his nose, very inelegantly, which brings a smile to Harold’s face. There is very little light but they are standing so close to one another that it hasn’t escaped John’s attention.

Finch walks gingerly around John’s clothes laying around all over the apartment’s floor, tempted to ask if it’s a new attempt at decorating, but he holds himself back. He sits at one end of the couch and doesn’t say a word, willing John to come and do the same, which he does after a minute or so. They are sitting like bookends at either end of that enormous couch, with a space between them that is made up of all those unsaid words, those small hurts, those wants and needs.

John turns toward Harold, offering him the bottle again, which Finch refuses with a wave of his hand. “Why are you always so angry at me, Finch?” he asks, his voice low and scratchy, as if every word has to be hewn from his own flesh. The question ends on a deep sigh that seems to come from that empty space deep within John’s soul.

“What?” asks Finch. “Me? Angry? Mr. Reese, are you insane? Why on earth would I be angry with you? I told you, it’s because you work with me that I can now start to rid myself of the guilt I felt about the numbers. I am not, nor have I ever been angry with you,” he adds.

Even in the dark, in this room lit only by a pale moon casting a bleak bluish light through a window, Finch sees the pain in John’s expression, the deep creases bracketing that lovely mouth, the furrowed brow, the overcast eyes.

“But…” John starts but Finch cuts him. “Mr. Reese, you know that social interaction does not come easy to me and I know I am not good at small talk. Because I’m usually very focused on what I do, I may appear standoffish but I can assure you that I have never been anything less than extremely happy with the work you do for me, John, for us, really, and I consider you a friend. In fact, my only friend these days.”

John only sighs, he’s brought his elbows to his knees and chin rests on his folded hands. And Harold sees that he is the one who has to take the first steps to close that rift which has opened between them. He moves closer to John and runs the back of his hand on John’s cheek.

John seizes it and leans into it. “Oh, John,” says Finch, “come here,” he says as he pulls John to him, wrapping his arms around the taller man who appears to keel over in Finch’s embrace, his body trembling under Finch’s ministrations. They stay there, so close that Finch can almost feel John’s heart beating through his own ribcage. All he can do to comfort John is to run his fingers gently at the nape of his neck, rocking him gently.

Lost in this closeness and feeling like the two of them are alone in the world, Harold turns his neck and kisses the terribly soft skin under John’s ear, and under his cheekbone, and at the corner of his mouth and then, putting both hands on each side of John’s face, he kisses him tenderly but thoroughly, feeling John’s lips respond to his, tasting the sweetness of the whiskey and the saltiness of the tears and to Harold, nothing in the world could taste better. John hasn’t said a word but his arms wrap around Finch’s waist and his neck and he pushes his boss back against the seat cushion and unfolds his long body over Finch’s, never letting their lips come apart.

And now John is kissing him too, as he does everything else, with an intensity and a focus that make Finch want to wrap himself around him, his legs enfolding John’s, his hands everywhere at once, feasting on John’s soft, hot skin underneath his sweater, being careful not to disturb the bandage, wanting to feel everything at once.

And John kisses down his neck, closes his mouth on his Adam’s apple and sucks there, alternating with tender little licks, and Finch loses it and moans loudly, which reverberates in John’s mouth, which makes John hump him, growling deep in his throat.

Through this all, John hasn’t said a word. He is overwhelmed by his passion for Finch who is finally reciprocating. All he wants to do is feel, his whole body breaking in goose-bumps, and he almost wants to bury himself inside Finch and never move from there. He feels Harold run his cheek against his and he can’t help but think that he’s probably giving Finch a horrible beard burn because he hasn’t shaved. But Finch doesn’t seem to mind at all.

He maneuvers John slightly to the side of him and runs his hand down the front of John’s sweatpants, amazed at the size of what he finds there. John is hard, already leaking, the hot uncut skin of his dick moving freely in Harold’s hand. He runs his thumb gently over the head, smearing the wetness he finds there and while John quickly undoes Finch’s belt and pants, he keeps moving his hand up and down John’s throbbing dick. The balls are heavy, encased in a silky sac which Finch caresses gently, making the eggs move up and down in his hand. Finally John sets him free and Harold wraps his hand around both their dicks. They both start rutting against his hand, John holding on to Finch’s hips to keep him in place so he doesn’t hurt himself.

The sounds they make are entirely obscene and only serve to prod them further along toward completion, and when they finally reach their orgasm, Harold is too overwhelmed to make a sound but John sounds like he’s halfway between crying and dying. It makes Harold shiver as his orgasm finishes coursing through him.

They don’t move, letting everything return slowly to normal, both knowing that they have crossed a bridge they cannot cross back. And as life reasserts itself, John starts thinking that maybe he shouldn’t have, maybe Finch felt pushed, maybe…

“Mr. Reese, I can feel your brain whirring and the wind is ruffling my hair… please stop and relax.”

And John moves his head in the crook of Finch’s neck and kisses him softly and says “Thank you!” and in a softer, almost imperceptible voice “Finch, you know me so well…”

“Yes Mr. Reese, I do, don’t I? Now if you wouldn’t mind moving a bit, I need to get up.”

So John moves, still afraid that Finch will bolt. But he gets up gingerly, tests his hip, turns around to kiss John softly and says “I’m going to have a shower. Please try and relax, I’m not going anywhere else.”

And John smiles for the first time in a long time and closes his eyes.

When Finch comes out of the shower, he’s dressed in John’s black terrycloth dressing gown which is way too big for him. He makes his way slowly back to the sofa where John is now sitting. Careful not to get his feet caught in John’s clothes, he sits by him, a small white cardboard in his hands. John looks at him questioningly and Finch opens it and says “Close your eyes and open your mouth, John.” And when John does, Finch pops something in his mouth and John’s eyes open and he moans loudly. “Mmmmmh, Finch, what’s that?”

“The best truffles in New York, John, I wanted you to taste them so you would know why I loved them so much when I was a boy.” Still moaning and in the throes of what sounds like a second orgasm, John grabs Harold’s hand and sucks each of Finch’s two fingers which held that truffle. Finch feels a long tremor shoot through his body from his lower back to his neck. He closes his eyes and lets John continue his ministrations.

When John’s done, Harold pulls on John’s hand so that they’re both facing each other.

“John,” he starts, and immediately John looks at him in alarm. “John, please, please! Do you understand now that the reason I appeared standoffish was that I wanted you so much and did not know how to go about it. My so called anger was, is and probably will continue to be, directed to myself, for placing you in jeopardy, for sending you on the streets and risk you getting hurt. It is not, and has never been because I was angry but rather because I was afraid for you and angry at myself.  I love you John, and the last thing I want is to see you hurt! Do you understand now?”

John bends down and places his forehead on Harold’s, taking his lover’s smaller hands in his large ones. “I do now, but Finch, I love you too but from now on, please don’t shut me away. I can take anything Harold, the only thing I cannot live with, the thing that tears me apart, is silence and indifference. I’m not a guy who talks much either, but I need to feel that you’re connected to me. Always.” And Harold says “Always. And I promise you the next time we make love, it won’t be hurriedly on the sofa. After all, that enormous bed has to be put to good use,” he says with a smile.  And he kisses John with the utmost tenderness before placing his head on John’s shoulder. Wrapped up in each other, they watch the moon disappear as a new day crests slowly above the city.

 


End file.
